


Art of Conflict

by nightcamedown



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcamedown/pseuds/nightcamedown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucille has a smell, Eliot loses the plot, Sophie saves the day, and Parker doesn't tase anyone (but gets to steal a getaway car). Written for aricadavidson for the Comment Fic Meme!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art of Conflict

"Nate, there's something wrong," Sophie murmured, in the tone that meant she was smiling brightly and talking through her teeth.

Sophie was in her element - posing as an art critic a high society party being hosted at the estate of youthful software tycoon Charles Smith - but there was an incongruous note of tension in her voice. Six blocks away Nate, who'd been occupying himself by ignoring the smell that seemed to dog every incarnation of Lucille, sat up straight. Without being asked, Hardison pulled up three images on separate monitors: one showing Sophie near the center of the spacious library, now laughing at someone's bad joke, one showing Eliot, standing near Smith in front of one of the oversize black-and-white photographs adorning the library walls, and Parker's button cam, showing that she'd retrieved the object they'd come for and was headed out the window of Smith's third-floor bedroom.

"We're not seeing anything, Soph."

Sophie trilled another laugh and placed her hand on the arm of the young woman in front of her. "That's too funny, darling. My friend Eliot would simply love that story - he's just back from Paris, and he said the same thing. I must introduce you."

Hardison pulled up the angle on Eliot and turned up the volume from his comm. Nate leaned in. " - truly remarkable artist," Smith was saying. "Renowned for the powerful emotions he captures in such stark images."

"I can see that," Eliot said. His alter ego, Michael McGann, was a political science professor; he wouldn't be expected to know art. Still, Eliot hadn't looked away from the print since Nate had been watching. "Kandahar?"

"That's right. It's the space where a home no longer stood following an airstrike in 2006." Smith cocked his head. "Have you been to Kandahar yourself, Mr. McGann? Perhaps you served there."

Eliot hesitated, and alarms started going off in Nate's head.

"Yes," Nate said. "Hardison, tell him yes. Sophie, get in there."

Hardison covered the microphone with one hand and waved the other at the monitors as Sophie began to move across the room a little more quickly than the stately Irene DuBois normally would. "I'm not a magician, Nate. The McGann identity is air-tight, ain't no room for a secret military career."

"Are you a veteran?" Smith continued to press, with a child's bright curiosity.

"Just _do it_ , Hardison." Hardison blinked at him in surprise and Nate laid one hand on his shoulder, willing him to understand. "Look," he said softly, "don't make him say no."

For a moment, Hardison looked terribly adult. He gave a short nod and turned back to the monitors. "That's affirmative, Eliot," he said, fingers flying across his keyboard. "I'm grafting on the Donaldson service record, okay? That's six years in the Reserves and a tour in Iraq."

"Yes," Eliot said. There was something strange and flat in his voice; even Hardison could hear it, judging by the look he gave Nate. That was bad. Nate watched Eliot's shoulders draw together. Very bad. "I don't usually talk about it at dinner parties," he said with a chuckle that Smith didn't appear to recognize as forced.

"Understandable, of course," the young billionaire said cheerfully. He spun on one heel to look at the print hanging in front of Eliot. "Still, I'd love your, ah, expert opinion on how well this captures the reality."

"Oh," Eliot said faintly, but was saved by Sophie's arrival.

"What an extraordinary piece," she exclaimed, gliding to a halt on Smith's other side. "Charles, you have a magnificent eye for art."

He beamed at her. "Thank you, Irene. I'm glad to hear you say so. In fact, I just asked Mr. McGann, here, for a sort of historical analysis. He's a veteran, you know."

"I didn't know that," Sophie cooed. She leaned around Smith to meet Eliot's eyes. "How wonderfully exciting. You must have some thrilling stories to tell, Michael."

Eliot dropped his gaze to the floor, and for the life of him Nate couldn't tell if it was in character or not. "I suppose so."

"But great art, I think," Sophie said as if he hadn't spoken, "is not limited by anything as narrow and drab as reality. Don't you agree, Charles?" Her voice was soaring and falling, her eyes alight with passion. "Whether this photograph captures every detail with perfect accuracy, or gets them all perfectly wrong, doesn't affect its emotional authenticity, does it?"

Smith looked suitably dazzled. "No, of course not. You're right."

"I should hope so," she laughed. "Some of us do still have to work for a living, darling." She pretended to see someone over his shoulder. "Oh! There's Missy Vanderbilt. Michael, I've been meaning to introduce you two for eons. Excuse a moment, won't you, Charles?"

He smiled and stepped back with a courtly little bow. "My lady."

Sophie batted him playfully on the arm and sailed away, pulling Eliot in her wake. "Nate," she whispered.

"You're clear to the main entrance," Nate said, checking the security camera feeds.

"We're taking the back," Sophie said through her teeth, waving at a gaggle of partygoers who only wanted to be seen recognizing the woman who'd held Charles Smith's attention for the better part of the evening.

"Oooookay," Hardison said, pulling up alternate feeds. "I can't see all the way, but you should be fine until you reach the kitchen. No cameras there."

"I'm sure I can handle a few caterers if it comes to that," Sophie said. "This way," she said, sotto voce, clearly directing Eliot. Nate and Hardison exchanged another glance, and Hardison started shutting down the monitors in preparation for a quick escape.

"Parker," Eliot said, in the same weirdly flat tone. "She's still - "

"She's clear," Nate said. "She's coming down the back of the house right now, you're gonna see her in about twelve seconds."

Eliot fell silent again. He and Sophie passed from view of the final camera right before Hardison switched off that monitor, and Nate climbed into the front seat. "We're coming to get you."

*

It wasn't clear what happened in the six minutes between losing sight of Sophie and Eliot, and picking them up again as Lucille coasted to a stop on the crushed shell driveway behind the mansion. For her part, Sophie never breathed a word of it.

All Nate knew was what he could see, which was Eliot, sitting on the back step in his shirtsleeves, with his forehead on his knees and his hands locked behind his neck, and Sophie, sitting next to him, speaking in a low constant murmur. She was holding his jacket and tie across her lap, her hands folded together atop the fabric as if to prevent herself from reaching out to him.

Parker stood several paces apart, radiating a protective energy that made even Hardison stop and step back. She squared her body in front of Sophie and Eliot, holding out three comms and a thumb drive in her upturned palm. Hardison took them without comment.

Nate made to go past her. "I should - "

"It's private," Parker said. Her voice was quiet, but she had a certain look in her eyes that generally meant someone was about to get a 50,000 volt how-do-you-do. "Leave them alone."

Nate stepped back. "We should go," he said, matching her soft tone.

"So go." She shrugged. "We'll find our own way back."

"I'm okay," Eliot said, lifting his head. He didn't look okay. He looked pale and unwell, and his eyes weren't focusing on anything Nate could see. "I'm sorry. It's okay."

Sophie slipped a hand under his arm and stood as he did, somehow making it look like he was helping her up instead of the other way around. "Don't be sorry," she said, in her gentlest tone. "Everything is fine."

"The drive - "

"Got it," Parker said. She stood on Eliot's other side, close enough to touch, understanding enough not to. "Let's go."

Eliot stopped after two steps and blinked at the van like he'd never seen it before. "I can't get in there." He said it with a strangled laugh, passing one hand over his eyes. "I can't - "

"Parker, find us something with some headroom," Nate said easily. Her eyes lit up and she disappeared around the corner before he could say anything else. "Hardison, Sophie, why don't you start back."

Hardison looked like he wanted to object, but Sophie shook her head at him and he turned away with one last look at Eliot. She climbed into the passenger seat and after a moment Lucille rumbled to life and pulled away.

Eliot didn't move; just stood in the middle of the driveway, head down, hands on his hips, breathing in and out on an artificially even count. "I'm sorry," he said to the ground, after a few moments of silence.

"Don't worry about it," Nate said. He puts his own hands in his pockets and turned to stand at Eliot's side. "It all worked out."

"And if it hadn't?"

"Eliot - "

"I didn't even _think_ about Parker."

"Yes, you did." Nate met Eliot's uncomprehending look, ignoring the cold feeling forming in his gut. "You made sure she was clear before you went with Sophie, Eliot. I can have Hardison play it back for you if you don't believe me."

Eliot swallowed hard before looking away. "Still - if you'd needed me - "

"If we'd needed you, you would have been fine. You would have put - whatever was happening - behind that big steel door in your head and kicked it closed."

"You can't know that."

"I've seen you do it," Nate said quietly. It was the closest they'd come to discussing what had happened that day in the warehouse. "I don't like that you know how to close that door. I don't like that you had to learn how to do it. I don't like the thought of all the shit you've put behind it and what it costs you to keep it closed. I don't like anything about it, Eliot, but I won't lose one wink of sleep worrying that you won't be effective when we need you. Not one."

Eliot scuffed his shoe in the crushed shell and was silent, until the roar of an engine filled the night air. A car going way, way faster than it should have been power-slid around the corner of the mansion and came to a halt ten feet in front of them.

Nate and Eliot blinked at it, and then at each other.

"Nate. Did Parker just steal me a Shelby GT350 convertible?"

"I think you'll find she just stole _me_ a Shelby GT350 convertible, Eliot."

"I think _I'm_ the one in the driver's seat," Parker shouted, revving the engine. "You coming or what?"

Eliot dove for the passenger seat and Nate, a beat slower, settled for the back. Still, he reflected, watching Eliot and Parker laugh as the wind screamed through their hair and the empty freeway fell away in front of them, it could have been worse. Much worse. He could have been stuck driving all the way back home in Lucille.


End file.
